


Liquid Salvation

by Creme13rulee



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Injury, M/M, Zine: Namida, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies, pro-vaccination propoganda basically, tw:needles, yoi angst zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 12:09:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19441180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creme13rulee/pseuds/Creme13rulee
Summary: Viktor vowed 'till death do us part' before the Outbreak happened.He did not expect that he would want to stay close to Yuuri beyond his death.for Namida: YOI Angst ZineArt by Kare Valgon  <3twitter.com/KareValgon,www.deviantart.com/kare-valgon, www.instagram.com/kare.valgon/





	Liquid Salvation

Love was easy. But Life was hard.

The Outbreak started on a coastal state in America earlier in the year. It started somewhere called Whatcom-- but the first patient was kept anonymous. A few weeks later , and it was in Europe. But that was when people could cross borders and airplanes flew in the sky. Today, the only planes that flew were to carry rations to different rally points. International travel has been shut down for months once it became obvious how virulent the Outbreak was. Competitions were canceled and the rink closed. No one wanted to skate anymore-- not when meals were limited to freeze-dried packets and soldiers lined the streets. Why learn to skate when you were just trying to survive?

Hospital gardens became funeral pyres when the bodies of those infected piled up too far. Every gathering point houses infrared thermometers. Those with a fever are denied access if lucky, or shot if they weren’t. It always started with a fever. It didn’t kill-- it just took what made you…  _ you.  _ Fevers gave way to tremors and hallucinations, until the virus took complete hold of its host. Some biological mechanism flipped a switch, turning the sick into mindless violent zombies. 

Hundreds of death certificates listed the virus as cause of death, when in reality it was a gunshot.

After all, it wasn’t Viktor’s forgetfulness about Ground Zero and the origin on the virus that changed his life so much. It was the fact that said place did not exist anymore. It was razed to the ground after the angry Infected took over.

Martial law took over, and this was the new normal.

The weekly ration run was a date for Viktor and Yuuri. It was too dangerous to bring Makkachin with them-- there were too many people, and people were dying too quickly for scientists to figure out if animals were a vector or not.

Well. It felt safer to kill first, research later.

\---

They walked hand in hand to the Hermitage, which had been emptied of historical artifacts, pieces swept away to be replaced by bags of flour and rice.

Viktor grew to appreciate Yuuri’s eyes more, now that most of his face lived behind a face mask. The elastic was no longer a nuisance-- Viktor wore it enough that he barely felt it anymore.

“Ooh. They’re giving out rice.” Yuuri’s eyes crinkled a little-- he was probably smiling. His hand squeezed Viktor as they joined the queue to file through the thermal monitors to the only entrance to the building.

“We’ll make katsudon!” Viktor sang, heart lifting a little. 

“There’s no meat, remember?” Yuuri’s voice was still falsely cheerful.

Right. A third of Russia’s population was dead. Imports were non-existent. But they were better off than Ground Zero.

“Well… We could always learn how to make tofu.” Viktor kept his grip on Yuuri tight-- the crowds grew more restless by the week. He would not be separated from Yuuri again. Yuuri squeezed back as they shuffled through the line. Everyone was wrapped in layers. The reduction in workforce meant scheduled blackouts-- resources spread thinner than butter on toast.

It ended up a wonderful week. Yuuri practically danced back toward the entrance, feet light and buoyed by the bag of rice and envelope of instant coffee in this week’s rations. He slowed as the crowd bottlenecked in front of them. The envelope of coffee dropped from Yuuri’s arms when he tripped, his shoelace caught under Viktor’s heel.

“Sorry, solnysko. I’ll get it.” Viktor knelt- a mother with her child pressed against her shoulder was in front of them, and a tired group of teenagers behind them. No one was pushing, so it wouldn’t hurt to take a moment.

_ Crack.  _

Viktor’s blood turned to ice when he heard the gunshot split air and wet warmth splatter the back of his head. 

A baby cried, his mother ruined on the pavement centimeters away.

Yuuri was quiet.

Viktor lifted his ocean eyes, his stomach turning and all of his nerves screaming  _ no no no. _

Yuuri stood, stunned, painted red, his eyelashes thick with it.

“Run!” Viktor shouts, abandoning the coffee and the rice and pulling his husband after him. He ducks into alleyways and pulls Yuuri, limp as a ragdoll, over piles of trash and broken fences. His hands shake as he tried to unlock their door.

“Bed.” It sounded like a curse. Makkachin felt his tone instantly, shrinking to the couch before she had a chance to even sniff at them. Viktor stripped off his coat, before ripping off Yuuri’s ruined facemask, glasses, carefully pulling his clothing off away from his face. He leaves them in a pile to burn.

Even naked, Yuuri’s hair is wet and stringy, his cheeks streaked with tears. Viktor pulls him into the bath, stopping to pull a jug of bleach they usually used to clean and keep dress shirts white.

Viktor starts with rinsing, then scrubbing with soap, before dousing Yuuri's hair in bleach. He stops when Yuuri started to cough, running the shower again. Viktor scrubs until Yuuri's skin was pink, the water clear and his sobs echoing against the tile walls.

“It’s not fair,” Yuuri choked.

“You’re not sick yet,” Viktor watched the water swirl down the drain.

“They--- just--- shot her--”

“Maybe she didn’t pass the secondary screenings.” Viktor parrots the public service announcements that endlessly scroll on the television. Yuuri looks so small, curled up on the floor of the shower.

Viktor crawls into bed with him, even though he doesn’t say another word for the rest of the night. He runs his fingers through Yuuri’s hair. He can’t bring himself to be jealous when Makkachin sandwiches Yuuri into him, licking the salt from Yuuri’s cheeks.

The next morning Viktor marks out the incubation on their calendar. Earlier in the year it was full of competition dates, practice times and lesson schedules. With Yubilenny converted to a hospital, the only days marked are ration pickup times. Viktor counts it out-- seven to twenty-one days. Their wedding anniversary is in thirty-two.

Yuuri doesn’t get out of bed, but he lifts his head when Viktor brings out the thermometer. It’s government-issue, from the early days of the epidemic.

Day 1--safe. Viktor plays The King and the Skater on Yuuri’s laptop, propping it up on the dresser. Yuuri doesn’t sit up, but Viktor can tell he’s listening, even if his eyes stare out the window. Viktor considers going back for the envelope of coffee grounds and rice, but reconsiders it the second he realizes that means leaving Yuuri alone. It doesn’t occur to him that the rations were most likely contaminated, long gone into some incinerator.

Besides, what good would a cup of coffee do? There was no cream to pour in it, and even the darkest roast could not obscure the invisible noose around Yuuri’s neck.

Yuuri eats the stew Viktor makes from lentils and the last cubes of chicken stock they have in their apartment. 

On the second day, Yuuri sits up and curls into Viktor’s side after lunch. Elated, Viktor twists around him to kiss him, only to have cold hands push him away.

“Not safe.” His voice shakes, and Viktor doesn’t need to hear an apology or an explanation. Yuuri looks sorry enough as it is.

\---

Day four is hopeful. Yuuri comes to the kitchen, wearing one of Viktor’s shirts, the one that hangs almost to his knees. His mouth is covered with a mask, but he looks at peace. They set the samovar to boil and make do with the underripe apricots from last week's rations. 

Then Yuuri’s mug chatters against the saucer. His hands tremble. Viktor tries to still them with his own, but it's in Yuuri’s bones. His knees shake, and by evening its strong enough that it interferes with eating.

“It’s alright. I’ll feed you, like I did with the cake on our wedding day.” Viktor smiles, holding a spoon to Yuuri’s soft lower lip.

“Wedding.” Yuuri blinks, taking the spoon into his mouth. He dragged his lips back across it, pulling any taste of the gruel off of it.

Yuuri still has some on his shirt from his first attempt at eating. 

“Yes...The best day of my life. Our wedding day.” Viktor smiled. The tremors aren’t promising, but Yuuri doesn’t have a fever. Yet.

He did promise till death do they part.

“The wedding…” Yuuri repeats, blinking slowly. He manages to spin the ring on his finger. “You said the colors were the wrong flower.”

Viktor sets the bowl down on the coffee table. Makkachin lets out a low whine, pushing her cold nose into Viktor’s arm.

“Yuuri. I think you’re sick.”

“Aqua, not blue.” Yuuri’s eyes are on the framed photo of them on the wall.

“Yuuri.” Viktor bites out, the pain bitter on his tongue. “You’re sick.”

“How? I can’t be sick.” His soft doe eyes settle back on Viktor, and the former Skating Legend can’t handle it. His eyes fill with tears.

“Tell me what we decided. Please.” Viktor’s voice breaks on the last syllable.

“Make sure we don’t hurt each other, and call Yakov.” The discussion was so long ago, the topic run into the ground that Yuuri has no issue bringing it up in his memory.

Yakov is gone.

“I’ll make sure you don’t hurt me. I promise.” Viktor strokes Yuuri’s hair, and his husband melts into him willingly.

  
  


It’s not Yuuri’s fault. It’s not.

Yuuri fights when the electricity shuts off. He writhes and kicks and screams. Viktor presses his entire weight on top of him, pushing him into the mattress, until he calms. He sings every lullabye he knows in Russian, then in English. Yuuri is calmest when Viktor recites the events of their wedding day and honey moon in what Japanese he has mastered in their years together. 

“I’ve loved Viktor Nikiforov since I was ten…” Yuuri mumbles in the dark. “My most prized possession is the limited edition poster from a Russian skating magazine.”

It would be charming, if not worrying. Viktor knows that Yuuri’s most cared for possession is his ring, followed closely by Vicchan’s collar. But Yuuri’s toe curl against Viktor’s calves, and his fingers finally fall still against pale skin.

Viktor gets three days of Yuuri rambling about russian beauty and grace, semi-lucid conversation, before on the fourth morning there is a crash.

Viktor makes it to the kitchen at the same time Makkachin does. She sniffs at the broken fruit bowl swept onto the floor , and licks Yuuri’s cheek as he seizes on the floor. 

Viktor cradles Yuuri’s head in his lap as his teeth clench and his eyes fade far away. His pupils shudder, and Viktor remembers--  Nystagmus. It’s third on the list of terminal symptoms. The seizures stop, but his eyes don’t stop moving, and Yuuri’s knees refuse to hold his weight. Viktor knows that Yuuri will not consider carrying him back to bed romantic. Maybe a year ago, but today it is an acknowledgement that the end is happening.

Viktor holds his husband up, walking him back to the bedroom. His naturally small waist is even smaller, the soft belly Viktor treasured a memory of healthier times.

Viktor props him up in bed with pillows and every blanket in the house, even when he sweats with fever. Yuuri drinks when Viktor holds a cup to his lips and eats when a spoon weighs heavy on his tongue. The first few days Viktor feeds him hand-over-hand, before his husband stops lifting his arms.

Viktor knows he can deal with the confusion, with weak arms and sweating foreheads.

But God, is it hard when Yuuri screams.

It starts in English-- “Don’t leave. Stay.”

But the more vivid the hallucinations get, the looser grip Yuuri has on English.

“Viktor, _Viktoru,_ _ikanaide_. ” Yuuri slurs. He thrashes, and even Viktor’s body weight on top of him isn’t much help.

_ “ I’m here, love. ” _ Viktor whispered. Only Makkachin gets Russian or English now. Viktor tries his best Japanese-- studies the paperback dictionary Hiroko gave him when they moved to St. Petersburg. The internet is locked to government agencies only. Any semblance of normalcy is long gone.

It’s exhausting. Viktor wants to leave-- the four walls around him are pressing in, squeezing the air out of his lungs. Yuuri sleeps fitfully. When he isn’t asleep, he fights. 

The same commercials cycle on the television. Wash your hands. Cover your cough. Report infection.

Water spills over Yuuri’s lips and onto the pillow on the seventh day. He refuses it for the eighth. Ninth. Tenth.

Viktor crawls into bed with him, thinking it the end.

But it isn’t. It’s the only beginning. Yuuri thrashes, fighting. His teeth rip at the arm Viktor presses into his chest to keep him down,. To keep him safe.

It feels like a reprieve.

Viktor doesn’t cry. He doesn’t wash the wound. He knows Yuuri would want him to fight, to disinfect it and keep living. But Viktor knows better. Yuuri is gone. There is no cure. There is no point on going on.

He gets a knife from the kitchen and drags all five bags of dog food out of the pantry. He slices them all open and a takes a hammer to the lock at the front door. It swings slightly ajar, loose enough that Makka will be able to push past it. His girl is smart--- but she needs a way out when she realizes that her family is gone.

Yuuri stumbles after him. He walks like a drunken toddler. His eyes are clouded over, his pupils silver and gaze lost. Makkachin whines, pressing her wet nose into his hand.

“Yuuri?” Viktor breathes. Yuuri’s hand hangs loose by his side. His eyes stare through Viktor. 

Viktor remembers his last words.

_ Stay. _

“Let’s go to bed, love.” Viktor takes Yuuri’s hand, leading him back to the bedroom. His limbs don’t work quite right. He feels like a marionette pulled tight. It’s not a strange feeling--- it’s just been years since he’d felt it.

The loneliness compresses into a migraine. Yuuri is quiet. He doesn’t cry or scream or even moan. He lays there, his silver moon eyes unfocused and trained on his husband.

He doesn’t fight. He doesn’t bite or dig his nails into Viktor’s arms. He rolls into Viktor's side when his husband presses close-- Yuuri lays against him, but he doesn’t rest a hand on his waist or press a kiss to Viktor’s lips. He knows Viktor, but he doesn’t act on it-- or anything else in the world.

Viktor hopes that something in him recognizes Yuuri when he is gone, too.

An hour later he crawls out of bed, the silence getting under his skin. He turns on the TV, takes his temperature. Makes two mugs of tea. One grows cold.

Public service announcements scroll endlessly by on the television, lighting up the living room when the night falls.

The scheduled blackout never comes.

Viktor wakes up to Yuuri’s weight on his chest, crushing the air out of his lungs.

His limbs tremble, and his muscles don't listen when he tries to push Yuuri off.

The apartment is filled with a high pitched screech, before it falls into a mechanical cry. Viktor imagines Makkachin turning into a monster before the tone blips into a steady set of beeps.

_ Civil Authorities have issued an order for all healthy citizens to report to designated refuge shelters for immediate vaccination. All those healthy and at danger of infection are required to report to designated refuge shelters for immediate vaccination.  _

Victor stares directly into Yuuri’s clouded eyes as the message plays again. He laughs, his lungs aching. Yuuri doesn’t fight this time when Viktor’s arms close around him. The memory of a smile stretches his face when Viktor kisses him. 

Viktor decides that it will be faster if he carries Yuuri to the center. He can barely walk, yet alone run.

He stumbles, falling every few steps on the three kilometer walk to their designated center. On the fifth fall, Yuuri rolls onto his own bare feet. They stumble together.

“Yuuri-- Yuuri-- can you believe it? There’s a cure. A cure.” Viktor laughs, elated even as his body tries to fight him. Yuuri doesn’t answer-- his tongue hasn’t curled around a human word in days. Yuuri stumbles, following Viktor even after his feet leave behind bloody traces of his steps. 

It's hard to hold onto the joy when they return to where Yuuri was infected. Viktor can see the crumple of the woman's body and hear Yuuri’s sobs ring in his ears still. They are at the place where the universe took Yuuri from Viktor, leaving only a shell behind.

But instead of thermal readers, there are boxes and doctors in gowns and gloves.

It’s a real sanctuary. Needles pushed into veins and smiles and the end within reach.

Viktor tightens his grip on Yuuri’s hand when they reach the end of the line. He expects thrashing and teeth and hunger. But Yuuri remains docile, his hands in Viktors, his eyes on the line ahead.

He waits patiently. His eyes haven’t focused since his third seizure, but his body is pointed toward the sanctuary.

The piercing worry in the back of Viktor’s mind is soothed when he watches a man stumble through another line. Each ‘doctor’-- a government worker in scrubs-- is accompanied by a soldier, rifle at the ready. But there are no gunshots.

Yuuri digs in his heels when they reach the front of the line. Viktor goes first-- the doctor has the syringe ready, but Yuuri isn’t.

Even after watching the vial empty, Yuuri is still hesitant. He doesn’t fight, but he puts his whole weight into his feet.

“Sir, we need the line to keep moving.” The soldier snaps. Viktor stares down the barrel of the assault rifle. It doesn’t matter that there is no finger on the trigger.

“Let me do it.” The words come out too fast. He’s only done injections twice-- both on Makkachin, at the vet and months ago. The vet was nice, but the look of betrayal on Makka’s face had turned him off of helping for good.

The doctor hands him the syringe without issue. Viktor steps out of line, Yuuri instantly calming, holding his weight on his bare feet. He turns Yuuri’s arm in his hand, waiting for a struggle that never comes.

“I can’t wait to have you back.” Viktor watched the liquid salvation being pushed into Yuuri's vein. 

  



End file.
